


The Home Robbery That Went Horribly Wrong. Or Did It?

by Nordic_Breeze



Series: Against All Odds [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, F/M, Happy Ending, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top, but he did break into someone's home in the middle of the night what did he expect, involuntarily tied up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 09:11:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze
Summary: What was supposed to be a simple home robbery didn’t go quite as planned for Arthur Morgan. Nor for the homeowner (you) for that matter.





	The Home Robbery That Went Horribly Wrong. Or Did It?

**Author's Note:**

> Just a lil something I couldn't get out of my head. So it had to be put into words. And shared with the world I guess. First attempt at writing in second person POV.

_You find yourself somewhere along Kamassa River, near the Bluewater Marsh, you think, fishing. That’s weird, you don’t own a fishing pole, nor do you remember buying one. You feel a pull and start reeling in the line, excited to have your first catch. But the more you reel, the more the animal resists and the two of you seems to be caught in a neverending power struggle._

Something startles you and you’re quick to realize you’re at home, in your bed. In your half-awake-half-slumber state, you’re not quite sure exactly what, but something has ripped you out of your dream. Or, someone. There it is again! A faint sound, but an out-of-place sound nonetheless. Not of the wind outside or the stream running right by your house, nor that of a wild animal. You know those sounds well, and this ain’t one of them. Your eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, you dare to look around, helped by the full moon outside. The silhouette of a large man hovering over your desk out in the living room makes you go ice cold. What you feared but had not dared to think is now a dreadful reality. Someone’s in your house!

Panic spreading through your body, you force yourself to lie still as you go over how to best approach this predicament. Pretending to be asleep and hope he doesn’t notice you or approach you? Scream and hope it will spook him enough to make him leave? A man his size? Yeah, right. Threaten him? Your hands fumble for the gun under the pillow next to you. The very same one your father had insisted you knew how to use before you moved. For that, you are grateful. The silhouette approaches the doorless bedroom entrance, standing still for a moment. Even though you cannot see his face, you can sense how his gaze wanders the room, scouting out places with possible loot. He is tall and brawny, with broad-shoulders and a hint of a beard, you think. The unmistakable shape of a cowboy hat frames his head. Your fingers clench around the firearm. You barely dare to breathe. _He is moving._

After a disappointing search through your cupboard, he makes his way over to the nightstand right next to you. He has no idea you are awake, that much is clear. Your heart hammers at a rate you did not think was possible. You are not an easily scared woman. You live alone, not quite rural but outside of settlement, well aware your well-of parents makes you a possible target, likely what had brought your uninvited and most unwelcome guest over. But there is something about lying alone and half-naked surrounded by darkness, a protruding shadow of a home-robber only a few inches away as your sole company.

The sound of the drawer being pulled out sends shots of ice flying through your veins. Not only because of the intruder, but also because of what is in the drawer. Family heirlooms. Jewelry belonging to your late grandmother. The adorned silver medallion with a picture of you and your little sister, your sweet, sweet baby sister that had been taken from you, all of you, so sudden and unexpected. Your only memento of her. You can’t let him take it. Your hand closes around the handle. Your grip is firm; you’re waiting for your chance.

As soon as he turns his back to you, you wait until he’s about three steps away, and out of grabbing-range, then you rise as silently as you can and draw the gun at him. You shout but you really didn’t have to. The sound of the hammer being cocked is enough to make him freeze.

“Stop right there!”

“Easy there.”

His voice is low and gruff. He sounds surprisingly calm. Somehow it both soothes you and annoys you. Eyes on your target, you step over to the drawer to light the oil lamp on the counter. Your unwanted guest drops his shoulders but keeps his arms half-raised. You could’ve sworn you just heard him sigh.

“Give back what you took,” you hiss.

“Allrite, allrite. Just - take it easy, Ma’am.”

His back still facing you, he reaches for the leather bag drooped over his shoulder – dangerously close to a gun belt holding two firearms and a knife. You’ve heard stories of how fast these outlaws can draw their guns.

“Hold up!”

His arms freeze mid-air. He does as he’s told, but still seems remarkably unfazed by it all.

“Turn around!”

He hesitates, clearly unwilling to do so. “Calm down, Miss. I ain't gonna hurt ya. I’mma take out what I took from you I and be on my way. There’s no need for-“

“I said, turn around. NOW!”

Your tone clearly implies this is not up for discussion. He slowly turns. A unique blend of green and blue stares back at you with an overbearing and slightly annoyed look. Your heart's still hammering against your ribs, but now more out of anger than fear. He’d just stolen from you your most precious belonging. Something that could never be replaced for all the money in the world. How can he be so nonchalant? To him, this is merely a job gone bad. He just wants the situation to be over and dealt with so he can be on his way. Out in the cold, dark night to find more unsuspecting people to rob. Well, not this time.

“Back off! Move!”

You shift, gun cocked and ready to fire steadily aimed at the intruder’s chest, steering him in the direction you want.

“Hey, _hey_. Easy there. Eeeeasy.”

He holds up his palms and backs slightly. His tone is calm and strangely soothing, as if he‘s trying to calm an upset child or a spooked animal. You are neither. You keep it up until he‘s right next to the closest chair.

“Sit.”

“Excuse me?”

For the first time, he seems confused.

“I said, SIT!”

“Okay, okay. Just take it easy, Ma’am.”

He breaks into people’s private homes in the middle of the night and expects them to stay calm? You open the drawer next to you and retrieve a bundle of thick rope, left over from when you and your brother had made the fence surrounding your house to keep unwanted animals at bay.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

You don’t respond as you circle around him, the barrel never leaving its target. Well aware you’re still in your thin nightgown you crouch down behind the chair.

“Hands behind your back.”

“Hey, hey, there’s no need to-“

You shove the barrel into his neck, making sure he feels the cold steel pressing hard against his skin.

“Hands. _Behind._ Your. Back.”

With another sigh, he does as he’s told. You tie him up good, first around the wrists, then you secure his elbows to the back of the massive chair. It’s not an easy feat as you only have one hand free with the other holding the gun aimed at your unwanted house guest. After you’re done, you remove his gun belt with the two revolvers and hunting knife. Better to be safe than sorry.

“Is this really necessary, huh?”

“You’re going to jail,” you declare as you put the belt with the attached weapons on the table right next to you. “As soon as the sun’s up, I’m going to get the sheriff.”

“Oh, it ain’t gonna come to that.”

“And what exactly are you going to do about it?” you retort with confidence as you drape a shawl over your shoulders.

He stops struggling for a few seconds, and tilts his head to shoot you a glare under the broad-rim hat. “Ma'am, even if you do get me locked up, I’ll be out in no time.”

He sounds so certain, you have to wonder if he speaks from experience.

“What makes you think that?”

“Let’s just say, I ain’t gonna swing, lady.”

You retrieve the knife from the discarded gun belt and approach the intruder-now-turned-prisoner.

“Hey, what are you doin-“

You let him believe you’re going to use it on him as you raise the sharp blade, hovering over his chest for a couple of seconds, watching him struggle as he tries to free himself to no avail. Then you swiftly cut the strap holding his satchel in place and tug at the leather strip, all while ignoring his protests.

“I’m getting back what you took,” you sneer, emptying the content on the table. As soon as you see your medallion you snatch it into your hands, your fingers clenching the locket.

“That thing mean something to ya?”

“None of your business,” you spit out.

You put it around your neck. You sure as hell aren’t going to leave it out of your sight when there’s an outlaw in your living room, tied up or not. You scrounge through his belongings, of which there are plentiful, finding the rest of your stuff, taking money equivalent of what you keep in your living room drawer, as you know he’s already been there. Your fingers touch a leathery binder.

“What’s this? You keep a journal?”

“Hey, that’s private!”

You gesture around you. “Well, so is all this my dear, but that didn’t stop you now _did it_?”

He goes silent, and lowers his head. You open the tiny buckle and flip through the pages. A list of initials and savings, a crude yet surprisingly detailed map and sketch of Blackwater. You are amused at how much it bothers him. So much, you start reading out aloud from the first page in an overly dramatic tone.

_“I bought this new journal after the last one got destroyed in that fire all those months ago, whenever it was. Haven’t written – or drawn much – in the past few months, but I was missing it more than I thought I would, and finally near a store, so here I am, I guess…”_

“Stop it! Please.” Despite the harsh tone, it was a genuine plea. You decide to have a little fun at his expense. Taking the journal with you, you sit down on the couch you had placed near the window with the most afternoon sun, a place where you’d spend countless lazy hours devouring your many, beloved books, legs crossed.

“What’s your name?” you ask. As expected, you get no reply save from a sour look.

“Okay, here’s how this is going to play out. I ask you a question, and every time you refuse to answer, I read a page from your journal. Out loud. Now, what’s your name?”

No response. You open the book again and start reading the first sentence you find.

“Arthur Morgan,” he scoffs in a tone of defeat, as if hating the sound of his own name.

“You been an outlaw for long, Mr. Morgan?”

“For almost as long as I can remember I guess. Lost my ma at a young age and my pa was never, - he was bad, even by my standards. Lived a few years on the street, stealing what I could to stay alive.”

“Then what?”

“I met – someone. He took care of me I guess, taught me to read’n write. I started workin’ for him and another fellar. Pretty soon, we had our own gang.”

“Tell me about them.”

Striking, blue-green eyes stares intensely back at you. “If you think Imma give any of’em up-“

“That’s not what I meant. Tell me who’s important to you and why.”

“What’s it to ya?”

He glares at you with a mix of puzzlement and fury. You start flipping the pages. There are tons of sketches. Good sketches. Some crude, but many in extraordinary detail. Of animals, both wild and domestic, and all kinds of plants and crops. Places and landmarks with the occasional comment denoting an adventurous man curious of the world around him and its beings. A slight tug at the corner of your mouth catches you off guard but you manage to stop yourself from smiling. _Don’t go soft on him now._

“Oh, here’s a good entry. _Herr Strauss is back lending money, and I’m back collecting it_. _The job-”_

“Hosea.”

Your gaze leaves the pages and return to the man tied up in your chair. He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head, his face morphing into a silent cuss as he realizes he just revealed one of his gang member’s names.

“Look, I’m not out for names or anything like that,” you assure. “Just tell me why he’s important to you.”

He shoots you a glare, silently asking why. You are honestly not quite sure. Perhaps you are looking for humanity in this man as you are slowly starting to realize he ain’t so bad after all, even if you can’t admit it to yourself quite yet.

“He’s- like a father to me.” As he speaks, Arthur lowers his head as if ashamed to share something truly intimate. “He’s kind, fair, one of the most human of us all I guess.”

“He sounds like a good man,” you respond, your tone soft and gentle for the first time tonight. That doesn’t go unnoticed by your companion.

“He is,” he affirms, his deep voice thick with love. “Better than any of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah, there’s this young woman. Sweet, good-natured and cunning. Joined us a few months back. Wants to be a writer. And there’s – all the girls, really. Even Ms.-”

He stops himself before accidentally revealing another name. Quite a wasted effort as you have already seen several names in his journal. The few pages you’ve read is enough to tell you this journal may belong to a hardened outlaw but beneath the coarse exterior is a thoughtful, pondering and compassionate soul, poetic even, longing for something he can’t quite define. And you can’t get that look in his teal eyes when talking about the ones dear to him out of your head. His fellow gang members. They are his family, no doubt. Not by blood but by heart. You see a drawing of a little boy, Jack. And Arthur’s words about him. A good boy. A dreamer. And his mother, Abigail. You think of the emotion-ridden entry of a woman named Mary, whom he’s clearly still so very fond of, an entry which you had planned to throw in his face but have now changed your mind. You realize things aren’t as black and white as they may seem. You close the journal. You’re done playing this game.

“You never married?” It's more of a statement than a question. You could guess as much from what you’d seen in his journal. A flash of pain wash over his eyes as he stares at nothing in particular with a bitter smile. You wonder if he is thinking of this Mary woman.

“Ain’t no one that wanted me.”

The hurt in his voice makes your chest sting and you can’t help but pity him. A drop of sweat runs down his cheek and disappear in the thick stubble covering the lower part of his face.

“You keep fighting the ropes like that, it’s gonna leave some nasty wounds,” you warn.

He snorts at that. “And what you think the rope ‘round my neck’s gonna do?”

Okay. Fair point.

“Really? Didn’t you say you wouldn’t be swinging?”

“I won’t.”

You get up, find some handkerchiefs, aprons and towels from your drawer and crouch down behind him. You still have your gun with you, just in case.

“What are you doing?”

“If you stay still for a moment, I can get these tissues between the rope and your hands. The fabric will protect your skin.”

“Why thank you kindly. How very kind of you.” His voice is thick with sarcasm. You ignore it as you focus on tucking the cloths between the rope and Arthur’s skin. His wrists are already a flaming red. You use his knife to cut up an old apron to make it fit. When you reckon you’ve done what you can to prevent further bruising – well, besides cutting him free that is, you sit down on the chair next to him, looking him over from top to bottom, fumbling with his knife.

“You ever feel bad about all the robbing and killing?” Your question comes of so innocently, it makes him rise a brow. Your heart starts hammering again, but this time not out of anger or fear but for entirely different reasons altogether. My Lord, he is one handsome fella.

He scoffs. “All the time, lady. All the time.”

“Then why do it?”

“Just the way it gotta be, Miss. I ain’t cut out for anythin’ else.”

You want to object, but the life of an outlaw is all he’s ever known; what he believes he’s meant to be. It’s all he can see himself as. You barely know him, but you do know he is too stuck in the lifestyle, the mindset of an outlaw that reaching out to him would be futile.

“You want some water?” you ask, rising to get some without waiting for an answer.

“I’m good, _thanks_.”

“Sure you are, but you should still have something to drink.”

“You got some whiskey instead?”

“You mean the whiskey you tried to steal?” You cook a smile. “Maybe later.”

Without really thinking about what you are doing, you sit down on his lap, placing the filled cup to his lips. “It’s freshly boiled from the stream outside. It’s safe to drink, I promise.”

You take a sip to show you’re telling the truth and return the mug to him. He accepts with a _there’s-no-point-in-arguing_ look. As he drinks, a drop runs down the corner of his mouth. You wipe it off with your thumb and licks it clean. He notices that. You remove his hat, dirt-blonde locks moist with sweat droops over his forehead, and with a cheeky grin you place it on your own. Arthur is not as amused. You use a cloth to wipe his forehead, trailing down to his temples, following the outline of his face down to his neck, all while marveling the sight of him.

“There. Does that feel better?”

“I guess. Yeah. It does.”

Still sitting on his lap, you circle his jaw with the knife. He stiffens, looking up at you with dazzling eyes, making you all hot’n bothered. You hide it. For now. You do not intend to harm him. It is a safety measure – and a warning. You have soften up to him, no doubt. However, softening up does not equal trust. His words from before still lingers in your mind. Reaching out to him might be futile yes, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun trying. Sunrise was still an hour away or so and you have to do something to pass time. You tuck one arm around his neck.

“Now, what makes you say that?”

“Say what?”

“That you ain’t cut out for anything else?”

You shift position, inching closer to his chest and lean in until you’re only a couple of inches from his face as you trace his jawline with the dull end of his knife. He seems unfazed, but a flicker in his eyes reveals he is not.

“Even if it’s all you’ve ever done, it doesn’t mean that’s all you ever will be, or have to be. We’re more than just one thing, Mr. Morgan.”

Another scoff. “Whatever you say, lady.”

“My name is <y/n>.”

“Those drawings of yours are really good,” you confess, playing with his locks. The look he shoots you tells you he doesn’t believe a word.

“I mean it. You got talent. I’m sure you could easily make money drawing or painting. And your writing ain’t so bad either.”

It is a sincere compliment but Arthur looks at you like you just deeply insulted him. Does he think you’re being sarcastic? Apparently, yes.

“Ain’t no one ever gonna pay for anything I draw and I write like a damn fool.”

His stubbornness irks you. So does the calm and blasé conduct to his predicament. Then there’s your growing attraction to him. He’s got the nicest, luscious lips you’ve ever seen on another person and you want to keep him talking so you can watch his mouth move.

“Whatever happened to your chin?” You put the knife’s edge to the scar right below his bottom lip as to pretend you was watching that and not his lips. “A fist fight gone bad?”

“Not just one,” he shrugs. “There been so many, I lost count years’n years ago.”

Your heartrate picks up again. There is no denying it. You want him. Badly. Less than an hour ago you feared him, despised him. Had someone told you then that you would end up lusting for him you would have told them they were crazy and that there was a higher chance you’d sail outside the Chumberland Falls in a barrel. But here you are. You can’t help but wonder if putting your thoughts into action would make him lose his cool, even for just a moment.

“I know what we can do to pass the time,” you whisper softly, leaning in to kiss his neck. The response is instantaneous.

“What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” you respond.

“Why?”

“'Cause I want you.”

You resume the activity, your lips once again finding the spot behind his ears and working their way downwards. He smells of sweat, tobacco and alcohol but there’s also the scent of him, making you lust for him even more.

“Lady, I don’t think so.”

You cook an impish smile. “Well, it’s not like you got much of a choice now is it?”

For a fraction of a second, his eyes widen and his jaw drops. Biting your lip, you remove the bandana draped around his neck and use the tip of the knife to unbutton his shirt. Slowly. He gives you a puzzling look. You move to the next button, excitement and anticipation building up as more skin is revealed. But even if he did lose his cool, it was only for a short moment.

“You don’t really want me, Miss,” he smirks. “You’re just try’na prove some damn point.”

Your gaze shift from his chest to his eyes. “Prove a point? As in, you came into my home, went through my things, and took my belongings without my permission?”

“S’mthin’ like that.”

“Maybe.” Another button comes loose. “But I do really want you, Arthur.”

You lean in again to resume kissing his neck, now moving down to his collarbone, unbuttoning the last button on his shirt with your hands as the angle makes it awkward to use the knife. You don’t quite recognize yourself. Maybe this is wrong. So was he for breaking in. Then you are both wrong. And two wrongs don’t make one right. Yet, you can’t help yourself. Moreover, you know that despite your words, any hefty protests would make you stop.

“Look, I’m sorry for scaring you. Thought you was sleepin’.” You turn to look at him. “And I’m sorry for taking that necklace of yours.” His gaze shoots down at the pendant still hanging around your neck. “Didn’t know it was important to you.”

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “You wouldn’t have cared if you had known, Arthur. Surely, at some point, the fact that some of the things you’re taking might hold sentimental value to its owners must’ve crossed your mind. And yet, you _keep_ taking it.”

He turns away, lowering his head in shame. “Ain’t my fault the world’s like it is.”

Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.

You feel anger and annoyance building up again, now combined with a hefty dose of lust, laced in with pity, compassion and curiosity. Never have you ever had so many conflicting emotions directed at one single person before, and all within a mere hour or less. You shift position, straddling him, wrapping your legs around him. You grab the hairs at the back of his neck and rub yourself against him. His body gives off several jolts. It seems to be by pure instinct. It feels so good. Damn, does it feel good. With heavy breaths you tear at his shirt, pulling it, and his suspenders, as far as his tied-up hands will allow, exposing his bare chest. He is still gawping as you lean forward to pepper the exposed skin with kisses, moving up to his face.

“You’re the most handsome fella I’ve ever laid my eyes on,” you breathe earnestly, touching him wherever you can reach. Your thumb strokes his bottom lip. “And you got the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen on a man.”

You move in to plant a kiss on his lips for the first time. To your surprise, he not only lets you but he kisses you back, and quite passionately so, leaning it to you. That is enough to remove the last hint of doubt you have about what you are doing. You’re quick to remove your nightgown, your shawl and Arthur’s hat flying off simultaneously. Only wearing your drawers, you lean in to kiss him again, rubbing against his groin and with your hands running through his hair.

“You want to touch me, Arthur?” you tease, grinding your groin against his, feeling him harden. He only manages a grunt in response.

“You touching me, it would feel so good,” you pant.

“Cut me free and I will.”

“Sorry darlin’, can’t take that chance.”

His arms jerking, you’re not sure if he’s still resisting the ropes or if it’s a result of your debauchery. You want to but you can’t risk shifting the balance of power. Not now.

Heat building up, you arch your back and throw your head back. As a result, your chest shoots forward, right next to his face. You gasp as you feel his lips close around one of your breasts. So unexpected, so damn good. You pull his head closer, steering it in the angle you want as his tongue plays with your nipple, drawing from you gasps and moans. When he pulls from you to catch his breath, he pants heavily, his forehead resting on your chest, in the groove between your ribs.

You’ve drawn this out because you want it to last but now you can’t wait any longer. His heavy breathing fires you up and you go off him to remove your drawers. Arthur's eyes are tracing every line and curve of your naked body.

You fumble impatiently with his pants, eager to feel him inside you. You take him in your hands, giving him a light stroke, feeling his length. His entire body bucks forward. You wonder how long it has been since he last had any kind of release. Still holding on to him, you hover over him, steering the tip to your core, circling it above your entrance, letting him feel your wetness. Just a little bit more-

Arthur grinds his forehead against your shoulder, panting. “I’m gonna-“

_Oh no, you don’t._

You squeeze around the tip and sit down on him, gently wagging back and forth, enjoying how it feels to have him inside you. Telling him how good it feels to have him inside you. You hug your legs tightly around him and start moving your hips, much to your both enjoyments. Surely, he was grateful for the fabric between him and the rope by now.

You want it to last, you want to enjoy but you can feel yourself already getting close. And so is he if his movements and panting is any indication. You lean in to his ear to share the fantasies running through your head. How badly you want him to touch you, throw you down on the bed or the table and fuck you hard. How you want him to use your body for his own pleasure, as you are using his now. How the mere thought of him going down on you, his mouth between your legs makes you even more wet than you already are. You pick up the pace, riding him hard. His hips thrust upward and forward, and soon he follows your rhythm. From there, it doesn’t take long.

You don’t climax often but when you do, you’re not exactly quiet. Your body taut, you scream and moan out his name as you come undone, raveling in pleasure, not caring if anyone hears, though unlikely as it’s still not quite morning yet. As you start to come down from your peak, Arthur’s words stir you out of your daze.

“Pull me out. I’m gonna-“

You hoist yourself off him, take him in your hand and stroke him till he spills over your tummy and thigh. You place his head between your breasts and wait for him to catch his breath, stroking his hair.

“That's good, Arthur,” you praise. “You did so well. Now I’m gonna get us cleaned up.”

You leave him there as you dart over to the basin and pour in some water. You want to hurry as you assume, he’s not entirely comfortable being tied up and exposed like that. You quickly clean yourself and put on some clothes.

“You gonna leave me like this when the sheriff comes?” you hear behind you.

“Of course not,” you assure, returning fully dressed, hair tucked up and with a clean towel. You put the moist cloth to his face.

“Is fine, you don’t need to do this.”

More protests. You answer with a smile as you move to his chest and groin. He seems slightly bothered by that, as if thinking he’s a grown man that can clean himself.

“It’s not like you can do this yourself now, is it,” you reply, cooking a cheeky grin. You tuck him in and button up his long johns, pants and shirt and tie on his bandana.

“Does this feel all right?”

“Yeah. Is fine.”

“You want me to adjust-“

“I said, s’fine.”

“All right. Just making sure.”

You put your arms around him, meeting his eyes with a stab of guilt. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. It was a nice thing we shared, eh?”

“You really gonna turn me in now? After _this_?”

The sinking feeling in your stomach grows. You weigh back and forth, letting your conflicting emotions clash. But deep down, you already know the answer.

“No. No, I’m not.”

Relief washes over him. You know what you have to do. You also know the balance of power will shift completely. It’s a huge risk to take. Nevertheless, your instinct tells you he won’t harm you. As if reading your mind, Arthur speaks.

“Then let me go. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Or rob ya.”

You move of him and start gathering his belongings back in the satchel, including his journal, not quite sure why you feel sad all of a sudden. You brush it off; it’s been a long and turbulent night. You attach the cut-off strap with a safety pin.

“Sorry about that.”

“S’allrite. I probably deserved that.”

You answer him with a gawky simper, adding ten dollars to his satchel. “Just so you don’t leave completely empty-handed.”

You’re not sure you really owe him anything, but it still feels like the right thing to do. Or the safe thing, in case he is still considering going through with the robbery. You grab the knife lying on the table, tracing the ornate pattern on the blade, unsure of why you postpone.

“Hey! You gonna leave me here, or…?”

“No, of course not. Hang on, I’m gonna cut you free.”

“Don’t think I got much of a choice,” he replies with a cheeky tone. You crouch down and start severing the thick rope. It takes a while to cut through them all. His wrists are even worse than before, bruised and flaming red, guilt flaring up in your chest again.

“Hang on a second, I have some ointment for that.”

“I don’t need anythin’.”

“Please, it’s the least I can do.”

You sprint to get the ointment and bandages in your kitchen cabinet and realize with dread a moment later. _You turned your back to him._

Barely daring to turn around, you find him standing upright, rubbing his arms, waiting for you to return. He catches the look in your eyes.

“I told ya, I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“Okay.”

You smile back at him shyly. The shift in power had gone smoothly. Actually, there is no more struggle for power. You think.

You focus on tending to the wounds on his wrists, feeling his eyes on you but not daring to look up, hoping in vain your burning cheeks aren’t too revealing.

“You always greet strangers like that?” he eventually asks.

You can’t help but to snort. “Only the most handsome ones,” you joke back, fastening the bandage. “And only if they turn out to be a good man and a talented sketch artist with an intriguing journal.”

He shifts his gaze from your face to a spot on the floor, a slight tug at the corner of his lip. He looks – shy. Your hand lingers on his. The first rays of the morning sun find their way through the windows and hit your skin.

“Soo, I was just about to make some breakfast. Want some?”

He looks up at you again, with surprise. Then a smile spreads over his face.

“Sure.”


End file.
